Thursday, February 24, 2011

Not exactly Radcliffe, but a lecture on Emily Dickinson and Ruth Owen Jones.

On my way home from having dinner near Radcliffe, I found a lecture on the sexuality of Emily Dickinson. Yellow, to the author is a code word for semen, blue is the penis, sun is the beginning of male ejaculation, sunset is the penis post-coital, earth is the vagina.
"When I have seen the sun emerge from his amazing house" is being read by the the author.
And she is giving the sexual symbolic interpretation. Mermaids is symbolic of semen not having yet ejaculated. Dandelions is the penis, to the author. "Will there really be a morning" is female arousal after male climax. "Softly my future climbs the stair." is being read by the author, so let's try to get it before the author analyzes it. Somone in the audience is tilting her head backward at a 30 degree angle, lowering her ponytail toward her shoulders.
I'm in a church as I was a half hour ago. Ther other was built in the revolutionary war and there was an organ recital that I was not allowed to film, only because he locks himself in.
She is right now calling the dominant force of the male sex act as she reads the last poem, "For each ecstactic instant we must an anquish pay."
She's claiming they are sexually explicit descriptions. "Where the place called morning lies" is apparently sexual to her.
It is iffy that the building belongs to The University and as much as I like the concept, I'm not ready to compare this to a Harvard-Radcliffe (same dean?) lecture; she nice, but I won't evaluate her as a lecturer, its a book signing. But, I was here a long time without leaving the house after 8'oclock at night. It is on air broadcast on NPR right at the moment. She speaking about textural analysis of poetry, while being questioned by the radio announcer. Apparently the author this author is speaking about is still alive.
She is shifting to a 1892 Atlantic Monthly review of the poetess. As I have written, I saw Peter Davidson, editor of the magazine, here before he passed away and I married, which explains being humble when out at night at this late hour. i submitted to the Atlantic Monthly a poem entitled "Teardrops" in 1977, which should have been included in a volume named Moments of Tenderness. Don't try to make up for lost time, just be here now and live life to the fullest- but...Play Hard- all week includes tommorow.

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